


Firebird: I. Pas de Deux

by htebazytook



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Apocalypse, Humor, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-22
Updated: 2007-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-07 08:25:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In the background Crowley and Aziraphale met on the tops of buses, and in art galleries, and at concerts, compared notes, and smiled."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Firebird: I. Pas de Deux

**Author's Note:**

> My most interesting interests, I feel, are music, 'Good Omens', and trilogies, and this little fanfiction trio therefore has it all. [](http://sbluerazchoccie.livejournal.com/profile)[**sbluerazchoccie**](http://sbluerazchoccie.livejournal.com/) is a beta-ing goddess, and one of the footnotes in here is her fault.

**Title:** Firebird: I. Pas de Deux  
 **Rating:** PG (for Shakespeare)  
 **Summary:** "In the background Crowley and Aziraphale met on the tops of buses, and in art galleries, and at concerts, compared notes, and smiled."  
 **Disclaimer:** <\--  
 **Warnings:** Um. A 'Dorian Gray' spoiler, actually, if that fazes you.  
 **Author's Notes:** My most interesting interests, I feel, are music, 'Good Omens', and trilogies, and this little fanfiction trio therefore has it all. [](http://sbluerazchoccie.livejournal.com/profile)[**sbluerazchoccie**](http://sbluerazchoccie.livejournal.com/) is a beta-ing goddess, and one of the footnotes in here is her fault.

 

 

No, not in _that_ way.

Aziraphale (an angel), who had been thoroughly engrossed in _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ , was interrupted when a sleek-sounding engine zoomed into earshot and hissed to a halt. Impatient, expensive footsteps made not a sound. The door to the shop swung open silently.

Crowley sneezed. He really, really shouldn't have to suffer through dust allergies, he thought, even if Bible-dust abounded.

"Bless you," Aziraphale said absentmindedly.

Crowley scowled. "No, bless _you_."

"What do you want?" The way he glanced up at the demon with only his eyes gave Crowley an impression of glasses, but Aziraphale didn't wear (or, indeed, need) them.

"Well, excuse me for saying hullo." He did seem genuinely affronted, around the edges. "I heard that the kid's going out on the town, as it were. I thought I'd tag along. It's only fair to let you know."

"Excuse me, 'out on the town'? He's barely a year old, Crowley?"

The demon tilted his head. "He'll be two in three months."

"That soon."

"Mhmm. Listen, Aziraphale, are you coming or not? We _have_ got to hurry if we're going to catch the same bus."

"Well, I suppose it wouldn't do any harm to observe him in person." He paused. "Bus?"

"You make him sound like an animal at the zoo. Or an experiment."

"And he's not?"

"Good point. Now come _on_ , angel. I know for a fact you've read that book more often than the author proofread it. The guy dies at the end. Big surprise."

Aziraphale made a disapproving noise, but nevertheless rose and began shuffling through the jackets on the coat-rack.* "Lots of people die in _Dorian Gray_. And it's mostly his fault," he said with a little glare.

"Oh, no you don't." The demon held up a finger. "I only give them all their options. I don't make them choose like you do, I simply stand back and _let_ them choose."

"Along with some nudging." His responses were getting to be automatic, deflective gestures. Crowley did show up so often lately—he couldn't be troubled with thinking up original responses.

"Which you wouldn't dream of stooping to."

"I merely offer them additional, ethical perspectives." Aziraphale slipped on a lightweight tweed jacket, nudged him, and started out the door. "Are you coming, my dear?"

 

 

*

* Variations on tartan and tweed, and a sensibly warm fur-collared coat for the winter.

*

 

 

Aziraphale was beginning to get suspicious of the way Crowley seemed to have some inner itinerary at his disposal and was apparently charging himself with keeping them to it. He darkened the angel's door nearly weekly—how was Aziraphale supposed to get anything done?

"Get what done," Crowley had protested, "thwarting under cover of a book? And anyway, I'm right here."

Previously, it had only been possible to take the demon in small doses. That didn't seem to be the case now, however, especially with so many new avenues of discussion opened by the Apocalypse. On top of that, Crowley was apparently hell-bent, as it were, on widening Aziraphale's cultural horizons. Whenever he showed up, it was unfailingly to whisk the angel away to something interesting and, although Crowley was unable to admit it, vaguely touristy. Aziraphale didn't really mind, and they did have Warlock to think of, and really it was necessary to keep up to date on his progress.

There was no reason to slack off on this. In fact, there was every reason to practice far more seriousness then they were wont to. This mattered.

Currently they were sitting, of all places, on the top of a double-decker tour bus, which was _overtly_ touristy. The Americans wore their country's flag just in case they weren't recognisable by their pronunciations or obnoxiousness, but all of the brightly dressed, knapsacked humans made a general commotion that was especially difficult to bear considering the assault of different languages on their ears. Everybody seemed encouraged to speak more boisterously than usual because nobody else could, presumably, understand them. Aziraphale hunkered down in his seat in the back row.

The front rows were occupied by several stern, lethal-looking men with an official demeanor. They might have been unremarkable if it not for the very conspicuous baby in their midst.

The golden-haired little baby who would destroy the world. He was drooling on a Secret Service agent's pristine suit.

"I heard he's taken his first steps already," Aziraphale whispered, as if for the sake of the sleeping baby five rows ahead of them.

"Doesn't it usually take a bit longer for that?"

"He's bright." Aziraphale smiled. "Yes, I think he'll do the right thing, in the end."

"By the right thing you mean _your_ right thing."

"Well, my right thing _is_ the right thing, I'm afraid."

"Right." Crowley picked at his nails.

"I believe his first word was 'Father'," Aziraphale continued. "Well, an abbreviation, of course, but the intention was undoubtedly the same."

Crowley rolled his eyes.

"During the baptism, you know."

"I might point out who his actual father is."

They had had an argument over baptism. Eventually a comprise was settled upon that involved a kitchen sink and a man posing as a pastor. Crowley seemed to think he had won, pronouncing how certain he was that it didn't work without holy water, while Aziraphale maintained that it was the thought that counted. It also probably eased Aziraphale's conscience to know that the phony preacher _had_ used holy water.  *

 

It was very unlikely that it made a difference, anyway. Warlock couldn't be very easy to kill, and who knew where he'd end up if he was?

Crowley nodded in the boy's direction. "Kid's waking up."

 _He doesn't look very demonic_ , Aziraphale thought. _I suppose that's the point._

"So should we go pry into his brain or something?"

"How should I know? _You_ asked me along. I only came to thwart you," said Aziraphale. "Besides, it's terribly rude, so no—and consider yourself thwarted."

"Well, you know, I wouldn't mind some input," Crowley said irritably. "We're supposed to be working together on this, in case you forgot."

"All we've done so far is confirm Warlock's continued existence," Aziraphale remarked.

"Yes, I _know_ that, so I was thinking maybe—oh." It had begun to drizzle. The demon glared at the water on his suit until it disappeared.

Aziraphale, too, made a face and coaxed the drizzling elsewhere. "Well, I'm sure the flowers, at least, are appreciating this," he sighed.

"We're already supposed to have flowers. The showers were last month. I _hate_ this kind of weather."

"Then why on earth are you still living here?"

The demon shrugged, shifting minutely. "Habit. And anyway there's no point in moving now." He collected himself. "Yeah, so, anyway—I was thinking that maybe we should rethink this whole delegation of godfatherly duty thing."

"What? Why? I'd thought it was working marvelously."

"Yes, it is, which is the problem. It's working _too_ marvelously."

"Oh, honestly, Crowley, how can you possibly tell at such a young age?"

"I, unlike you, visit the Great Beast That Is Called Dragon sometimes. (Although I of course understand that you must guard your books at all times from deranged Bible thumpers.) And I see what's going on. It's in the details, so _I'd_ know, I should think."

"My dear Crowley, are you implying that not all Bible thumpers are deranged?"

"I'm implying that anybody who owns as many Bibles at you do has got to be deranged. Now can we please talk business?"

"Oh, I'm sick of talking business with you." He watched London race by them, damp and bustling, the tour bus passing through pockets of lukewarm amid the spring city-chill. It went by fast; the angel stared at a blur. "It's mostly all that we do, you know."

"This isn't _Their_ business," Crowley said shortly.

"Fine."

"Now, I really don't want to break off this new arrangement or anything, Aziraphale, but I think a little _less_ influence might make the kid turn out better. Putting him smack in the middle of a tug-of-war between heaven, hell, right, and wrong might not be the best idea."

"Ah. I see. And what is it, do you propose, that _humans_ endure?"

". . . You do have a point, there," he admitted.

"It's going very smoothly, my dear," Aziraphale soothed. "Which doesn't often happen, so I can understand your concern, but do try and calm down. It _could_ actually work." _Because it has to._ Simple, really.

"I'm just saying we're supposed to be working together on this! Doesn't my opin—don't my observations count at all? Well? How are you not stressing over this?"

A pair of German tourists burst into laughter, presumably at something the automated commentary had said, or else the Tower of London was funnier than Aziraphale had originally thought. There were so many humans.

"I talk to Francis often enough," said Aziraphale evenly. "He says that Warlock is a perfect little ang—well, boy. He tells me what he's tended in the Attaché's garden that day, and then we usually go in for a cup of tea and a more detailed report, including the progress of the opposition." He stared up at Crowley with his eyes again, as he had in the shop, knowing it got the demon's attention. "I am doing my part. Your team appears to be doing yours. Now we're supposed to race along and keep tally on the little boy, yes?" Aziraphale took a breath and smiled. "Not so unlike the old days, is it?" he said ruefully.

"Do you know," said Crowley, who was remembering Aziraphale _was_ to be reckoned with, always **, "I may as well not be here. I'm just plain unnecessary when you're as wily as—if not more wily than me."

"Is that—"

"And I won't even get into wiling and thwarting yourself into cancellation."

"And _I_ shall simply refrain from mentioning the spark of good—"

"There's a spot of wickedness in _you_. Oh, deep down, I mean. Of course." Crowley grinned. He was in a much better mood, now. Which was not always good considering the kinds of things his moods revolved around.

"Hm."

Aziraphale's attention danced around the top of the bus. *** All of them, isolated on a shiny red island with cheerful humans painted on its side to be happy for them. An old Asian woman a few rows ahead seemed to have fallen asleep. She was here to sight-see, wasn't she? She could at least _pretend_ to memorise the foreign city landscape, pretend to find it remarkable. It wasn't, but her disregard rubbed Aziraphale the wrong way. Sometimes it seemed impossible for humans to enjoy Earth as keenly as he did. All he did was watch them not enjoy it and try to prod them toward the appreciation of _Something_ , at least, as he seemed generally unable to spark in them an appetite for existence in itself.

He and Crowley did have to work together—he oughtn't let the demon get to him quite so much or they'd end up discorporating one another and thereby condemning the world to its regularly scheduled Doom. He resolved to let what Crowley had said slide. "O wonderful, when devils tell the truth . . ." Aziraphale lamented.

"More wonderful, when angels are so angry," Crowley returned slyly.

". . . I suppose I should've guessed you'd have that memorised."

Crowley opened his palms. "What can I say? Leave me unattended in your shop and this sort of thing is bound to happen."

"Then I won't be doing so in the future."

"Oh, attend me, Aziraphale. Please do . . ."

In the front of the tour bus, the baby wailed. It wasn't especially heart-rending, except in the sense of, 'Ow, my God, a cranky child destroys my eardrums and my sanity.' Crowley made a face that illustrated this thought.

"Ow, my—"

"I quite agree. Why don't you quiet him down, then?"

"Why don't you?"

"Crowley, I can't go around getting noticed. This isn't exactly a routine smiting, you know."

"Is that why you always make _me_ do the miracling? You're really afraid of being noticed?" Crowley snorted. "You'll forgive my saying so, but that's the least of your worries, Aziraphale. And if this isn't a routine smiting then what is it, exactly, hm? An off-the-books smiting? What does _that_ involve, and, more importantly, when were you going to start doing it? I should remind you we're in public."

"Crowley." His voice was clear and dripped a very exasperated ' _typical_ '. But Crowley noted his telltale blush. Aziraphale noted it himself, and he also noted that Crowley noted. He didn't hate what Crowley brought out in him (although he probably should have), only that _Crowley_ brought it out in the first place. "I am an angel. Angels can't go dishing out miracles willy-nilly. We're—angels are selfless. Er."

"Yeah, fine, fine." The demon waved the Antichrist into contented infantile sleep. The fact stuck a chord with Aziraphale, but one that resolved as quickly as it had sounded. Waved _the Antichrist_ to sleep . . .

"I'm not surprised Gabriel keeps all the miracles to himself, though," Crowley remarked. "And I still don't see why one little thing is such a big deal. Obviously conducting a resurrection might draw some attention, yeah, but for someone's sake, who cares about one little thing? Why should _they_ care, even? Come on, Aziraphale, if you look at it—"

"Please stop."

Crowley looked at him in surprise. "I was just—"

"You _were_ just. That's the problem, Crowley, I—" Aziraphale sighed. "You have no idea how difficult it is."

"Well, you're right about that. Don't particularly want to, either."

"And you, you can go abracadabring infinitely without worrying. Without having to keep track." _Nowhere left to fall, really._ "Like a credit card that doesn't max out."

Crowley's eyebrows shot up. "Do my ears deceive me? Was that a pop culture reference? And to think I didn't believe the End of Days approacheth-eth. -Ed."

"Hardly popular culture, my dear." He smiled and the urgency lacing knots in his stomach vanished. Crowley was so very talented at leading Aziraphale away from distasteful topics. The angel was on to him, of course, but the demon _was_ a master tempter—one might almost say the veritable _author_ of temptation. There'd been times in the past when Aziraphale had suspected Crowley had him hypnotised. Now, however, he _knows_ it. And it's not so much a question of when the demon will finally strike, but of how. Aziraphale finds himself looking forward to it.

Today, however, Aziraphale won't be deterred. There were only so many idle hours on buses in the almost-rain coming from the next few—last few—years. He took a deep breath.

"Anyway, it has to be easier than acting as though there's nothing wrong. At least with your people—with, well, Below, and you all being what you . . . at least it _is_ wrong and everybody knows it and can admit it, right?"

"Well, angel, you _don't_ really know what it's like, do you?" he said, and fell silent.

Misty rain sweated on the seats. When Aziraphale leaned back he knew he was making his jacket wet. This was the only sound, the only presence between excited jabbering from the tourists. But then Warlock woke again, and continued his wailing precisely where he had left off. Aziraphale was sure Crowley had done it, and that feeling of wrongness returned— _How . . . the Antichrist?_ —and vanished.

Aziraphale's nose twitched. Not a moment later, the boy had ceased his cries.

Crowley smiled to himself. He could have said a lot of things, but he chose: "You are emphatically not a witch, Aziraphale."

"What?"

 

 

*

* Because it had been Aziraphale. But Aziraphale had never gotten around to telling Crowley—he would undoubtedly be referred to thereafter as "Aziraphale the Baptist" if Crowley knew. And the dear boy had never precisely _asked_.

** It was unsettlingly difficult to remember.

*** Which was considerably larger than the head of a pin.

*

 

 

Not so very far away, another child was finally being taken to a church. What appeared to be his mother had been very busy employing all sorts of tips about newborns she'd picked up in magazines, and just hadn't gotten _around_ to it. But what appeared to be the child's grandparents insisted, and his mother didn't see the harm in it, anyway.

Little Adam Young, however, wasn't keen on all that water, and it's uncertain whether or not the vicar remembered to bless it before the baptism. Or if it touched the child at all.

 

 

*

  



End file.
